


love in three acts

by sithsecrets



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oral Sex, but that's okay, din djarin's love isn't always expressed in words, just little moments in time, the little things that make a relationship worth it :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithsecrets/pseuds/sithsecrets
Summary: three gestures of love between the mandalorian and his one and only crew member.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 79





	love in three acts

1.

You’re not sure what wakes you initially, but you do know for certain that it’s the whimpering and the crying that gets you out of bed. You think it might be the baby at first— he wakes up hungry on occasion— but then you realize that all the fuss is coming from Mando’s bunk, not the Child’s pram.

Sitting up on your little pallet, you force to listen closely in the darkness just incase you’re mistaken. But no, you can still hear it, the crying the babbling and the pleading. You’re up at once after that, rushing to the other side of the room as quick as you can. Mando fell asleep with the panel open and his armor on, thank the Maker, so you don’t hesitate to check on him. He twitches and shakes on top of the blanket, distressed in a way unlike anything you’ve ever seen from him before. Mando mumbles and cries out, saying ‘no’ over and over again, pleading for what you don’t know.

After three seconds, it dawns on you that Mando’s having a nightmare.

“Mando, wake up,” you say into the darkness, laying your hand on his leg in an attempt to wake him. “Mando, please, it’s me, wake up.”

It’s like the Mandalorian can’t be reached, and you double your efforts, shaking him and raising your voice. “Mando, _please_ ,” you call. “It’s not real, you’re on the Crest, you’re—”

The fact that you manage to dodge Mando’s fist is a miracle. You chalk his sloppy aim up to disorientation from sleep and fear, and the action is soon forgotten in your haste to bring Mando back to reality.

“It’s me, it’s me!” you shriek, grabbing Mando by the arms in an attempt to stave off another assault. He’s getting stronger now, fighting more like himself— but just as you begin to fear he can’t be reached, the Mandalorian drops his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he huffs, panting like he’s been sprinting for five minutes straight. You hardly acknowledge the apology, more concerned than offended.

“It’s fine,” you say, but Mando barely seems to hear you, still huffing and clenching his fists.

“I just— It’s— I have nightmares sometimes.”

“I can imagine,” you soothe, and you really can. It’s been a rough few months, lots of running and fighting and killing, and even you’re feeling the strain. Mando’s the one on the front lines, though, protecting the baby, hunting bounties…

Minutes pass, and Mando still doesn’t seem very calm. He tells you to go back to bed, but you shake your head, sitting down on the edge of his bunk.

“Come here,” you say softly, almost whispering, even. Mando’s barely visible in the dim light, but the beskar still glints when he tilts his head.

“What?”

It’s by no means boldly done, but you still reach out, laying a hand on Mando’s shoulder. “ _Come here_.”

The armor makes it harder to hold him, but not impossible, and you slip your arms around Mando’s body slowly, deliberately.

After one long, tense moment, a single gloved hand comes up to hold your waist.

2.

It’s been about thirty minutes since you started looking for your boots, and you’re about ready to give up searching. You could’ve sworn you just had them— you made sure to pull them out before Mando made landing on Nevarro— but now they’re just _gone_. It’s not like they could have run off on their own, and the Crest isn’t exactly some behemoth of a ship. More frustrating than that, you actually _need_ them now. The toe on your right boot blew out a few days ago, and you were hoping to get it repaired before Mando took off after his next quarry. Karga of course has some work for him, and now you’re are due to go to fucking _Hoth_ of all places. The baby and Mando will be fine, but without your boots, all you’ll have in the way of shoes is the little slipper-style things you’ve been wearing to get you through.

Basically, you’re going to lose _at least_ two toes to the cold and it’s going to be your own fault.

Mando comes clanging back up on to the ship, a bag of supplies and the baby in hand. You turn to him the moment he comes into the hull, throwing up your hands in exasperation.

“Mando, have you seen—?”

As if on cue, the Mandalorian produces your boots from his bag, holding them out casually.

“… My boots,” you finish, taking the shoes from his hands as you say this.

“I got them repaired in the bazaar,” Mando tells you, turning away to start unpacking his other purchases. “You’ll need them on Hoth.”

It’s by no means a romantic speech, but the fact that he thought of you at all makes your stomach do a flip.

“I was going to have them done,” you say softly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It wasn’t any trouble. You do a lot around here, so I thought I could pick up the slack a little.” Mando sneaks at you over his shoulder. “Besides, I don’t want you to be cold.”

Coming from anyone else, these words wouldn’t mean a thing. But coming from Mando…

By no means does it encompass how you feel, but it’s the best you can do: “Thank you.”

3.

Part of you wonders if this is the best place to do this, though you decide it doesn’t matter the minute Mando tugs your pants down your legs.

How you ended up on your back like this you may never know, but what you _do_ know is that you want Mando to fuck you into this shitty motel mattress until you cry for him to stop. And he seems content to do just that, pushing inside you with one quick, harsh movement of his hips.

It knocks the breath of you, the force of those first few thrusts, and you quickly realize that there’s nothing to do but lie there and take whatever Mando gives you. He looms over you in the darkness, almost entirely clothed and clad in all his armor. If he wasn’t fucking you within an inch of your life, this have been one of those moments when you forget that Mando really is human under all the beskar. He’s a man, a man with skin and hair and muscle, and you wish you could just touch him, wish you could clutch onto his bare shoulders instead of the icy pauldrons protecting his body.

 _Maybe one day_ , you think to yourself, but just as soon as the thought forms, it goes, whisked away by the changing of the angle. Mando just pushed your knees up closer to your shoulders, and now you feel like you might die and cum all at the same time. And would that really be so awful, to die laid out underneath this man? Your pleasure-addled brain doesn’t have the capacity to offer a definitive answer, but your instincts say no, no, there are far worse ways to perish.

Mesmerized, you watch as Mando pulls at his gloves, his hips never breaking pace as he casts them both aside. Somehow, you find it within yourself to form words, to ask what he’s doing, but you don’t get the chance to so much as open your mouth before Mando himself is speaking.

“This good?” he rasps, voice clipped and haggard like he’s holding himself back. You’re the one who’s been making all the noise this whole time, though you’ve been trying to keep yourself quiet. The baby’s asleep just a few feet away in his pram, and the both of you _are_ in a motel, though the couple in the next room over seems to have no qualms about being heard.

“Mmhm,” you whimper, not daring to take your hand off your mouth for fear you’ll scream. And stars, it _is_ good, it’s so fucking—

“You wanna cum, _mesh’la_? If I touch you, will you cum for me?”

Maker above, _yes_ —

“Make me cum, please.”

It’s all you have the strength to say, and no one’s more surprised than you when the words come out as a whisper instead of a shout. Mando doesn’t need to be told twice, reaching between the both of you to swipe his thumb over your clit once, twice— You cum so fast and so hard that it’s almost embarrassing, completely lost to the feeling. Your body isn’t your own in that moment, it’s movements ruled by your pleasure with an iron fist. It’s like Mando can sense how gone you are, leaning down to press his helmet against your forehead, shushing you and fucking you through the orgasm so you don’t come out of it feeling deprived. But it’s one thing he does that makes the whole situation feel different, one little command that makes you flush with affection.

“Hold my hand, _mesh’la_ , there you go,” Mando whispers to you, pressing one of his palms against yours. He’s good to hold onto in the moment, grounding you, helping you remember that you aren’t alone even as you go off into another world.

By the time you come back down, Mando’s already pulling out of you, doing up his pants and tugging down the hem of his shirt. You’re not sure you could move if you wanted to, but it looks like Mando’s got that covered, tucking himself behind you without making you so much as scoot over in bed. You think you should say something to him, maybe tell him that he doesn’t have to lie with you like this if he doesn’t feel like it, but once again, Mando’s already there in your head.

“We’ll talk tomorrow on the Crest,” he says to you, whispering through the modulator. “Sleep now, _mesh’la_ , I know you’re tired.”

And though you know your body will ache in the morning, you close your eyes and drift off anyway, soothed by the warmth of Mando’s palm on your stomach.


End file.
